


Replacing Guilt

by zacekova



Category: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Domestic, Fix-It of Sorts, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon, The Garden of Light
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-06 05:03:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17339081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zacekova/pseuds/zacekova
Summary: Sing grits his teeth, crumpling the bloody, tear-stained letter he has clenched in his fist and trying to understand.Because hedoesn’tunderstand, can’t wrap his brain around how Ash could havelethimself bleed out in the middle of the fucking library - just sat there, body slowly draining of warmth and energy and life - and somehow done it with such a goddamn, peaceful fucking smile. Like all was right in the world.





	Replacing Guilt

**Author's Note:**

> Look. Ash and Eiji are soulmates - platonic, romantic, whatever - you will never convince me otherwise. But I need Eiji to not be alone for the rest of his life in the canonverse and the vibes I got from him and Sing in “Garden of Light” were just impossible to ignore. So this fic was made for that and so I could get inside Sing’s head and sort out his guilt and grief and complicated feelings.

Ash’s body is laid out on the morgue’s table, pale and cold and stiff, and for some goddamn reason he’s got a smile on his face.

Sing grits his teeth, crumpling the bloody, tear-stained letter he has clenched in his fist and trying to understand.

Because he _doesn’t_ understand, can’t wrap his brain around how Ash could have _let_ himself bleed out in the middle of the fucking library - just sat there, body slowly draining of warmth and energy and life - and somehow done it with such a goddamn, peaceful fucking smile. Like all was right in the world.

_Damnit._

Why the hell hadn’t he gone to a hospital? He’d had time - Ash’s _beyond_ fucking smart enough to have known he had time - so why had he just laid there and _died?_ Everything’s finally over and he had _Eiji._

God, _Eiji._ That defenseless, useless ball of sunshine is coming back in a few weeks, maybe a couple of months, and Ash won’t be here waiting.

 

~~~

 

It’s three hours later, when he walks in the door and finds his mother crumpled on the floor beneath the telephone, wailing into the hands pressed over her face, that he finds out about Lao. She looks up at him in horror when Sing puts the pieces together and laughs and laughs and laughs until he collapses on the floor beside her and stays there until morning.

 

~~~

 

In the end, Sing doesn’t have to tell Eiji about it. Max gets to him first and bears the burden of Eiji’s furious, broken, heart-wrenching sobs, and Sing - pressed against a wall around the corner and blinking rapidly up at the sky - doesn’t bother trying to keep himself from feeling guilty for that too.

 

~~~

 

Eiji keeps quiet, hiding away in Ash’s apartment for a while, but he stays in New York and Sing can’t bring himself to go see him, doesn’t even know what he would say to him if he could. Because what if Eiji asks about how Lao was even _able_ to get past Ash’s guard? Asks how _anyone_ could have killed Ash Lynx after a year-and-a-fucking-half of proving over and over again that even the world’s most dangerous killers couldn’t?

How can Sing look Eiji in the eye and say it couldn’t have been anything but Eiji’s letter, Eiji’s words, just _Eiji_ \- like he always has, just by being him - that could get Ash to let his guard down?

There’s no way Sing can tell him that. No fucking way.

So he pretends he can push it all out of his head and pours everything he has into rebuilding Chinatown, helping Yut Lung do the same for the Lee syndicate. So many people all up and down the food chain have died and the city’s underground is in shambles. There are too many empty spaces and too much instability because of it. Sing may regret having taken up his position as head of Chinatown in Shorter’s stead, but now that he’s got the responsibility there’s no way in hell he’s going to walk away and leave a mess behind, especially not since he’d promised Yut Lung he would help.

There’s more than enough to do to keep him busy, keep him distracted. He doesn’t have the time to think about Lao or Ash or Eiji and that’s good. It’s a good thing.

Maybe if he repeats it to himself enough he’ll even believe it.

 

~~~

 

“I saw Eiji the other day,” Nadia says, setting a bowl of _mapo doufu_ down in front of him and sliding into the empty bench across the table.

Sing stiffens for a moment before reaching for the chopsticks and picking chunks of tofu out from the rest, knowing Nadia will have caught his hesitation even if tries to pretend otherwise.

“He looks thin, pale,” Nadia goes on, crossing her arms on the table and staring down at them with a frown. “I’m worried about him.”

Sing frowns himself, pausing in his eating to look Nadia over; he didn’t think Eiji had spent much time with her, certainly not after Shorter died. “Why?” he asks eventually, genuinely curious. “I thought you barely knew him.”

Nadia’s arms tighten, curling into her chest, and Sing panics a little when he sees her eyes shimmering. “Shorter died to protect that boy and Ash nearly did the same probably more times than I know. They both cared about him. The least I can do is worry a little in their stead.”

Sing swallows around a lump in his throat, stomach churning, and he sets his chopsticks down. The chair screeches against the floor when he shoves back and drops a couple bills on the table. “Thanks for the food,” he croaks, ignoring Nadia calling after him as flees.

 

~~~

  
Sing had looked up to Ash - admired him - likes to think they were maybe even on their way to becoming friends there, at the end, when Ash called the truce. And even before that they’d looked out for each other, kept each other safe. But none of that even came close to comparing with what _Eiji_ and Ash had.

And Lao killed him; Sing’s _brother_ killed Ash.

Sing bears more responsibility for Eiji’s wellbeing than anyone.

 

~~~

 

The door is familiar, the hallway too - plush carpet and rich, wood paneling and crystal chandeliers; Sing hadn’t been to Ash’s apartment much, but he’d come enough to not have forgotten the way.

The way he’s been pausing at every intersection - staring blankly ahead as he psyches himself up to take the next step - probably makes it seem like he has, though.

What the fuck is he going to _say?_

That’s the problem, and it doesn’t get any clearer the closer he gets to the apartment. His stomach and feet feel like lead weights as he drags himself down the hallway, the door he needs to go through looming closer and closer like a spectre of doom while his hands shake and his skin goes damp in a cold sweat. The lights are golden warm and the door is just a wooden door, but it feels like dank shadows and the sour taste of terror.

What is he going to say?

Sing comes to a stop in front of it, staring through oak and dark finish with unseeing eyes and rifling through the empty, echoing warehouse of his brain for even the tiniest scrap of something intelligent and appropriate to say. He raises a fist on autopilot, a fog of indecision and shame hovering around him, and hears the steady rap of his own knuckles on the door.

No turning back now.

The door cracks open after a long, agonizing minute, lock-chain rattling, and Eiji’s warm, brown eyes peer out at him. They spark with recognition, but they seem dull, still, like the shine of innocent excitement has gone out of them.

Lifeless.

The door closes, just for a second, and opens again wide enough to let Sing slip inside.

At first glance, it’s about the same as Sing remembers - clean and bright and just a little bit cluttered, just enough to look lived in. But there’s gaps in the mess like black holes, sucking the life and familiarity out of the rooms - no pack of cigarettes on the counter, no hoodies draped over the couch, no prescription glasses folded neatly on the keyboard of the computer in the corner. There’s even some books missing from the shelves and all the furniture has been rearranged.

Sing had wondered, once or twice, how Eiji could bear to live in this place, where Ash’s fingerprints had been left on everything; now he knows.

“Do you want some tea?” Eiji asks, pulling Sing’s gaze away from his surroundings. Eiji’s standing in the doorway to the kitchen, backlit and holding up a kettle in invitation.

Sing turns his back on the living room and makes his way over, hands in his pockets, surprised when he realizes Eiji doesn’t seem as tall as the last time Sing saw him. “Sure. Thanks.”

Eiji nods and turns to set the water on the stove, grabbing cups and honey and milk and setting it all on the table while they wait for the water to heat.

Sing pulls out a chair and sits down heavily, resisting the urge to fold his arms across the table and bury his face in them. Not being able to _see_ Eiji isn’t going to make the awkwardness of this go away.

When the kettle starts to shriek, Eiji swipes it off the stove and pours the steaming water into the cups he’d grabbed earlier, sliding one across the table to Sing and gesturing toward a posse of tins. “I couldn’t remember what you liked so I just grabbed everything. I think there’s _darjeeling_ in the one on your left.”

Sing nods and starts sorting through them, sniffing each container for one he likes. “How is your family?” he asks, getting the words out before he can second-guess himself.

“They’re okay,” Eiji says, swirling his cup and watching the water stain green. “Everything’s been pleasant or stressful in the normal ways for them. They spent a lot of time catching me up on things I’d missed - visiting relatives and seeing the way my hometown has changed. Stuff like that.”

“Thought you were supposed to be resting,” Sing says, quirking a brow and pouring his chosen tea into the infuser.

“I was,” Eiji says, probably trying to sound reassuring, but his tone is a little too flat, too indifferent. “We didn’t do that stuff often, just every few days.”

“So what’d you do when you weren’t getting dragged all over?”

Eiji shrugs. “Watched TV, read manga, helped my mom with chores around the house.” Eiji’s expression pinches, his eyes swimming with some emotion Sing can’t name, and he sets his cup down with a quiet click. “They didn’t understand why I wanted to come back.”

“I’m sure most people wouldn’t,” Sing says, hardly more than a murmur. There’s a part of him wondering how much the statement applies to himself, too. He probably understands better than most people can, considering how much he saw, how much he was a part of, but is there anyone who can really understand Eiji’s reasons aside from Eiji?

Ash would have.

It goes quiet, then, for a long time - long enough for Sing’s tea to finish steeping - and the dull look in Eiji’s eyes is so agonizing Sing latches on to the first thought that pops in his head. “Did you take any pictures?”

Eiji blinks and slowly shakes his head. “I— I left my camera here. Hold on a second.” He stands up and retreats into the room he and Ash had shared before coming back in with the camera’s strap slung around his neck and his hands curled reverently around its body. He lifts it up to his eye, reaching around to rotate the lenses into focus on where Sing is sitting passively at the table.

 _Shink_.

The shutter flicks quietly and Eiji lowers the camera back down. He brushes his thumb over the edges of it, tracing the dials and settings, and the corners of his lips curl up in a tiny smile; it’s the only one he’s made all night. “I forgot how much I liked doing that,” Eiji says, soft and almost shy.

Something inside Sing cracks.

Shorter is gone. Ash is gone. Lao is gone. Half the people Sing truly cares about are gone and he’s not sure he’ll ever be happy again. But if he can get Eiji to start smiling again, help _Eiji_ be happy again, maybe that will be enough.

Maybe then the guilt won’t weigh like the sky.

 

~~~

 

Things change gradually after that day. Sing starts dropping by once or twice a month, then every week, then every couple of days. They have tea, watch movies, look through Eiji’s pictures; Sing gets him groceries and gives him news on what's going on with Alex and the others, makes sure no one is bothering him. He keeps good on his promise to himself - his secret promise to Eiji - keeping their time together light and cheerful and fun, and slowly, very slowly, Eiji starts smiling again.

It’s just never as bright as Sing remembers.

 

~~~

 

Eiji chuckles again, trying to hide the sound behind his hand, but Sing isn’t stupid. Or deaf. Or blind.

“Shut up, I just keep growing,” he growls, flipping the bag of jeans, t-shirts, and cheap but semi-respectable-looking suits over his shoulder and heading toward the shop’s exit. “It’s like every other week my pants and shirts are too short again and I’m showing everyone my ankles.”

Eiji follows along obediently, brushing his hair out of his face and trying to suppress a cheeky grin. “I’m glad I decided to come along to run my own errands. It would have been such a shame to miss this.”

Sing shoves at his shoulder halfheartedly, grumbling under his breath, but it’s mostly for show. However much he’d deny it, Eiji’s amusement has a knack for chasing away his temper; it’s hard to stay irritated when Eiji’s all… sparkly like that.

He huffs and rolls his shoulders, trying to work out the ache in his joints. “I’m just lucky this whole trading business thing Yut Lung dragged me into is doing so well or I’d be completely broke.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t let you walk around the office dressed like...” Eiji says, trailing off and turning toward the alley they’re walking past.

“What is it?” Sing asks, taking in the narrow path - dim and gloomy in the late afternoon light and littered with trash - but empty of people. There’s not anything there worthy of catching Eiji’s attention.

Eiji’s brow furrows and he makes his way over to the alley’s entrance, head cocked to the side. “I thought I heard…”

And then he’s jogging halfway down to the next road and stopping to yank the lid off one of the grimey trash cans. Sing follows after him as Eiji bends down and grabs something from inside, straightening up with a whimpering, filthy bundle of fur cradled in his arms.

Sing’s eyebrows rise toward his hairline. “Is that a dog?” He turns his head over his shoulder and takes in how the road is still packed with people, the noise of pounding music and clacking heels and chattering voices echoing down the brick and concrete alley, loud and obnoxious even from this far away. “How did you even hear it?” Sing asks.

Eiji’s running his fingers soothingly over the crown of the puppy’s head, apologizing repeatedly as his fingers keep snagging in its matted fur. “I just… did,” he says, shrugging. “It sounded so scared and hurt. Do you think it has an owner somewhere? Should we take it to the police?”

Sing shrugs. “You could try, but if it was dumped in the trash I highly doubt anyone is looking for it.”

“Yeah,” Eiji says, wrapping the dog up in the folds of his coat and turning back toward the road. “Yeah, I guess I should try, though.”

He goes quiet after that, almost completely silent but for the necessary words at the the local police station where the receptionist says they’ll put up a notice and keep their ears open, and then to the vet where they sit in lobby while the puppy gets cleaned up and checked over, and then almost all the way back to the apartment, his attention wavering between watching where he’s going and looking over the now clean and fluffy ball of fur in his arms.

“You know you can keep him if you want,” Sing says, watching him closely. He tries not to smile when Eiji looks up at him with wide eyes. “If no one claims him, you can keep him. There’s no reason you can’t.”

Eiji doesn’t say anything, just looks back down at the puppy with a thoughtful look on his face and Sing lets his lip curl up in amusement.

 

~~~

 

Eiji names the dog Buddy.

 

~~~

 

“I think I’m going to get my own place,” Eiji says, staring down at the mug of tea he has cupped in his hands. “The advanced payment on this place is going to run out at the end of the year anyway and I think it’s time I—” Eiji cuts himself off, raising the mug to his lips and taking a drink.

“I found a place that looks promising,” he barrels on after.

“That’s great, Eiji,” Sing says and reaches out to snag another _mahua_ , trying to sound excited, but not _too_ excited. This is progress, even if it’s forced progress, technically. The fact that Eiji is _admitting_ he should probably move on from this place - this place that’s haunted with so many memories even after all this time - rather than just quietly moving out when Ash’s pre-payment runs out, is important. But Eiji hates it when anyone mentions how slowly he’s processing all of it, how long it’s taking him to let go, and Sing doesn’t want to make him upset - gets his reasons why anyway - so he focuses on being excited.

“What’s it like?” he asks.

Eiji rubs a thumb absently around the rim of his mug, fidgety like he always is after slipping up on his mission to never mention anything to do with Ash. “It’s a two-story townhouse over in Greenwich Village - four bedrooms, a full kitchen, an open walkway on the second floor. It’s nice.”

“Sounds nice,” Sing says, munching on the _mahua_. “What d’you need four bedrooms for, though?”

“Well I needed at least one extra for a darkroom. I can’t afford to get a studio quite yet, and one of the bedrooms doesn’t have any windows so it’ll be easy to set up there.” Eiji turns to watch Buddy rolling around on the floor with a stuffed bear bigger than he is caught in his teeth. “And I thought it would be nice to have some spare rooms in case anyone ever needs a place to stay,” Eiji goes on, a little subdued.

Sing nods, unsurprised that Eiji is thinking ahead about needing a place to welcome wayward souls.

“It’s only a few blocks from the college, you know,” Eiji continues, staring resolutely down at his tea, knuckles white where they’re wrapped around his mug.

It’s an invitation, even if it isn’t phrased like one, and Sing doesn’t know how to answer him.

 

~~~

 

He’s angry, he realizes eventually. Furious. Ash could have chosen to follow Eiji to Japan and then he wouldn’t have died. He could have gotten help after Lao stabbed him and then he wouldn’t have died. He could have _lived_ and then Eiji wouldn’t have to be so sad and lonely and— and _different_ from that bright, determined guy Sing used to know. He wouldn’t feel the need to buy a house near the university in the hopes it would be enough of an excuse for Sing to keep stopping by, to keep visiting, to not leave Eiji all alone with his camera and his memories and his grief.

Sing had looked up to Ash and Ash had given up, let them all down in the worst way; left Eiji with no one, and now Sing is still trying to pick up the pieces three years later.

Sometimes it’s easier to blame Ash than to remember why most of it’s his own fault.

 

~~~

 

Eiji moves out at the end of the year, just like he said he would, moves into the house he’d mentioned in Greenwich Village and sets up a darkroom for developing his photographs, and Sing uses his new extra inches of height and pounds of muscles from boxing to shove furniture inside the spare bedrooms and wrangle fitted sheets and stubborn curtain rods into place.

“Thanks for helping me out with this,” Eiji says, coming in to lean against the doorframe with his arms crossed. “Bones and Kong said they’d come by, but I guess something came up.”

“It’s no problem,” Sing grunts, the walls shaking as he finally manages to shift a wardrobe up against one of them. “Yut Lung and I just signed a huge contract with another company so he let me take the week off in celebration.”

“What’s _he_ doing to celebrate?” Eiji asks.

Sing flops back against the wardrobe with a grin. “Letting me take the week off.” Eiji laughs and Sing’s grin widens. “He says not seeing my face for a few days is better than alcohol.”

Eiji smirks, eyes sparkling. “Considering how much crap you give him, I’m kind of impressed he was able to give up drinking at all.”

“Nah,” Sing says, pushing up from the floor with a grunt, “he loves me, he just can’t admit it because he’s allergic to affection.”

Eiji chuckles, shaking his head, but he doesn’t say Sing is _wrong._  “Anyway, I came in to tell you the trains are shutting down soon.”

“Alright,” Sing says, dusting off his hands on his pants and propping them on his hips. “I can be back first thing in the morning to help finish up.”

“Um, I was thinking...” Eiji pauses, gaze drifting to the floor and then back up. “You could just... stay here for the night if you want. I think you’re still small enough to fit in some of my bigger pajamas and we could throw your clothes in the wash - I got it hooked up earlier.”

“You sure?” Sing asks, eyebrows raised, and grins when Eiji nods. “Alright, cool. You got any food in this place?”

“Just some frozen pizzas.”

“Works for me,” Sing shrugs, trailing after Eiji as he heads down to the kitchen.

There’s not much in there yet, mostly just boxes and packing material strewn all over the floor from the still-ongoing process of unpacking. Sing finds a bare perch for his ass to start taking the newspaper wrapped around Eiji’s glasses and plates off while Eiji gets a pizza in the oven and hunts down the napkins he’s _absolutely sure I bought the other day._

The scent of warm cheese and bread is just starting to waft through the air when Eiji finally slaps a stack of napkins down on the table and roots around in a drawer for the pizza cutter. “Have you seen the newest _Back to the Future,_ yet?” he asks.

Sing moans. “Nooo, the business was just taking off and I had exams to study for and Yut Lung would seriously not leave me alone, then. I told him I’d already missed out on seeing the first one in the theater because of everything that happened that year, but he’s a cruel, selfish bastard and wouldn’t give me an evening off.”

Eiji chuckles and pulls the oven door open a crack.  A fresh wave of delicious pizza scent floods the kitchen and Sing’s mouth waters as Eiji finagles it off the rack and onto the stovetop. “Well I bought the VHS a few days ago,” he says. “If you help me set up the television we could watch it together.”

“Done,” Sing says already out of his chair and on his way to the mountain of boxes in the living room to find the VHS player. Eiji’s amused smirk follows after him - he doesn’t have to turn around to know it’s there - but Sing doesn’t even care. **_Back to the Future II_**.

Two hours later the credits are rolling, Sing’s stomach is full, and he’s not sure whether he should be pleased or pissed.

“You gotta be kidding me,” Eiji says, echoing Sing’s sentiments. “We wait four years and the story isn’t even finished?”

“I was thinking the same thing.”

“Aaaggghhhhh,” Eiji groans, tipping his head back against the couch. “Okay. Okay, I don’t have the energy to stay mad. You wanna go to bed?”

Sing has to fight to keep from choking. He knows what Eiji _means,_ but maybe he should teach him a different way to say that; the connotation might be a little lost with the language barrier. “Uh, yeah. Sure.”

They shut down the television and clean up, dropping their dishes in the sink and flicking off lights before heading upstairs. It takes a few minutes to hunt down a box of sheets and blankets and then Eiji directs Sing to the spare room next to his own, the one right next to the only bathroom upstairs aside from the one in Eiji’s room.

“Just leave your clothes in the hall and I’ll swap them for a pair of pajama pants on my way down to check the locks and start the wash, okay?” Eiji says, hand on the knob to his bedroom.

Sing nods, hit with the sudden realization that he’s spending the night in Eiji’s _house_ , that he’ll get to see a rumpled, sleepy Eiji in just a few hours. He’ll probably more relaxed and casual than Sing ever saw him after late nights of tossing and turning in some dingy bolt hole or on a spare patch of concrete while trying to stay off the grid. Sing’s never even seen him in a pair of sweatpants before.

“Well, um, goodnight,” Eiji says, breaking him out of his thoughts.

Sing blinks and nods on instinct. “Yeah. Goodnight.”

Eiji disappears into his bedroom and Sing can only stare after him for a long moment, wondering why the fuck his cheeks feel so warm.

 

~~~

 

So he stays at Eiji’s new house sometimes - when he studies at the library until it’s too late to take a train, when he stops by for dinner and has an early class the next morning, when he’s been held up at work and is too worn out to deal with the longer commute to his own house. Eiji always leads him to the same bedroom, handing over a pile of clean sheets and blankets and reminding him towels are in the closet next to the bathroom. Sing makes up the bed and tucks himself in and falls asleep imagining Eiji going through his own routine just on the other side of the wall.

He starts coming by more and more, just like he’d done at the apartment, but now he’s not just visiting for a few hours and then leaving for his own house. He’s staying the night; he’s leaving extra clothes in the empty dresser drawers; he’s coming by to steal Eiji’s food even when Eiji’s not there and then buying groceries to restock what he’s taken. He’s molding his routine to Eiji’s, learning how to mesh their lives together comfortably and supportively - like when to have a cup of tea waiting for Eiji after he’s had a late show; like the hour to avoid showering so they’re not doing it too close together and running out of hot water; like where Eiji hides all the best snacks and how to get away with stealing them for himself by placating Eiji with _better_ snacks.

It’s strange and different from anything he’s ever done before, but it’s _good_. He likes being in Eiji’s space like this, likes sharing that space; likes seeing Eiji’s eyes light up when he walks in the door, or laughing at cheesy daytime soaps, or scowling furiously at the grit he’s scrubbing from the tiles, or pouting because Sing showed up with takeout curry instead of dumplings. They’re close in a way they never used to be and Sing starts needing it like he needs air in his lungs.

When he accidentally calls Eiji’s house “home” right in front of him, Sing’s worried he’s overstepped his bounds, finally. That Eiji will politely and gently - but firmly - push him outside the line Sing has been toeing over for months.

But Eiji just looks startled for a moment and then his lip quirks in a smile, silently amused, and asks him what he wants for dinner.

Two days later, Sing stops worrying entirely when Eiji drags him to a furniture store to pick out his own bedding.

 

~~~

 

The scritch of a pen over paper is loud in Yut Lung’s gigantic office, clashing with the quiet clacking of Sing’s fingers tapping away at the computer on the other side of the room. It’s the way these evenings usually go, when Sing squeezes in time between classes and running the Chinatown gang and hanging out with Eiji to get the menial but important stuff done. They pore over paperwork, make endless phone calls and connections and business deals and more money than Sing had ever fathomed owning just a few years ago. They’re taking the Lee family’s foundation and building on it, tearing out the ugly, stolen, blood-spattered bricks and replacing them with new ones, clean ones, legal ones, turning the head of the Chinese-American mafia into a legitimate business.

If someone had told Sing’s fourteen-year-old self he’d one day be the president of a trading company - a branch of a company ran by Yut Lung of all people, and founded off the backs of the dead Lee family - he’d have laughed in their face and sent them running with a garrote around their neck. But that’s what he is now - a (mostly) respectable member of society with a paycheck and a transcript and friends. Real friends, not just comrades or subordinates.

Even if _some_ of his friends won’t ever admit that that’s what they are.

“I’ll be leaving for Hong Kong in a couple of weeks,” Yut Lung says, breaking the almost-silence. “For a few months, at the very least. I need to devote some time to forging better connections with the China branch.”

Sing hums absently, frowning at the computer screen and trying to figure out where exactly to seat Chen Yun at next month’s gala if he doesn’t want to have to deal with a raging debate on China’s economics three drinks into the night.

“You’ll have to pick up some of the slack while I’m gone,” Yut Lung continues. “You’ll be effectively taking my place, here, until further notice, so I suggest you find yourself an assistant of your own.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sing says; this is _at least_ the third time they’ve talked about this. “Side note, help me out with the seating arrangement.”

“Chen Yun?” Yut Lung asks.

“Chen Yun,” Sing agrees. “Honestly, I’m surprised he’s coming. I thought he wouldn’t since he won’t meet with foreigners.”

Yut Lung’s lips curl up in a faint smirk and he taps the back of his pen against the desk. “He makes an exception for the Lee family, even so far as to leave the country.” He hums, thoughtfully and glances at his own copy of the guest list and seating chart. “Ah. Table five, next to Zhou Zi Yang.”

Sing has the sudden urge to smack his head against the desk, but instead he just ducks his head and types the name frantically onto the chart, muttering under his breath. “For fuck’s sake, why didn’t I think of that?”

Yut Lung chuckles. “Speaking of the gala, do you have a date?” he asks, pausing for a moment before the scritch of his pen picks up again and his tone turns scathing. “Oh wait, that’s right. You’re too busy spending every spare moment you have with Eiji to have met anyone, let alone bothered to invite them to a formal dinner with the most prominent leaders of the Chinese people.”

Sing flushes, unable to deny any of it, but hating the way Yut Lung always _does this_. “He’s got no one, Yut Lung,” Sing says, swallowing back the desire to shout and scream and hurl it all in Yut Lung’s face until he _gets it_. “Alex and the others don’t have the time, and even if they did all they want to talk about is—“

He stops, swallows, turns his face away. “Eiji’s not ready to talk about it yet.”

“Neither are you, it seems,” Yut Lung says.

“Are you?” Sing bites back, bitter and angry, and looks up at him with a glare.

Yut Lung watches him for a long moment, expression unreadable, before turning his gaze out the window, eyes distant. “No. No, I don’t think any of us ever really will be,” he says softly. “But I think we probably have to be, someday.”

Sing knows he’s right, he just doesn’t see how he can ever actually get there.

It goes quiet again, for a long time, long enough that Sing looks back down at the piles of papers and the glare of the computer screen, hoping that if he pretends long enough his brain will get back on board with working.

“How is Eiji, really?” Yut Lung suddenly asks.

A few years ago, it would have sounded blithe, unconcerned; completely and totally insincere. It wouldn’t have been - Yut Lung would really have wanted to know, even if for a while it had only been out of a sense of vindictive, cruelly-pleased curiosity. But somewhere along the way all Yut Lung’s animosity bled out and Sing knows that right now - for a while, actually - he really means it. He’ll never _like_ Eiji, but Yut Lung can show genuine concern for anyone _Sing_ cares about, and that’s been enough for him to let go of the rage.

“He’s… better,” Sing says. “But it’s like you said, it’s not really something to get over. Worst of all for him.”

“You really have been spending a lot of time with him,” Yut Lung repeats, not accusing, just curious. At least until the next sentence comes out of his mouth. “Is it some kind of penance?”

And of course. Of course he sees right through Sing’s fragile, tender flesh to the throbbing heart beneath and knows just why it aches.

Sing fights down a swallow, willing it to still his churning stomach. “He needs someone to look after him. To be there for him,” he settles on, knowing that Yut Lung knows that’s only part of the story and not the most important part.

Yut Lung hums. “Are you sure that’s not what _you_ need?” he asks, and Sing stares down at the stack of papers under his hands, eyes burning, and doesn’t speak for the rest of the day.

 

~~~

 

Eiji and Sing are friends. Good friends. Maybe even each other’s best friends. They take care of each other, practically live together, but they don’t talk about anything that _matters_.

They don’t talk about the empty slots in Eiji’s photo albums, or the computer in Sing’s room covered with a spare pillowcase, or how Nadia takes flowers to the cemetery every month and neither of them ever go with her. They don’t talk about Eiji only going to the podunk library around the corner or Sing avoiding his mother’s phone calls or how one of them wakes the other up with their screams at least once a week.

They don’t talk about Ash.

They don’t talk about Ash because it’s too painful for Eiji, still, and Sing can’t bear to make it worse. Can’t burden Eiji with the truth just to relieve his own guilt.

Can’t hurt the man he— he…

_Oh._

_Oh, fuck._

 

~~~

 

Sing is sitting on Eiji’s couch, head lolling on the back cushion as he watches some random, terrible late night comedy he’s never heard of before when Eiji comes home. Sing hears him moving around at the entrance - hanging his coat, taking off his shoes, dropping his keys on the fancy little hook Sing installed a few months back.

He must notice Sing’s bag of boxing gear laying in the corner because he calls out “Sing?”

“In here,” Sing calls back, tipping his head over to watch Eiji pad quietly into the living room.

Eiji’s eyes go immediately to the television, brow furrowing in skepticism and mild disgust - Sing knows when his tv watching preferences are being judged harshly, even if Eiji hasn’t ever actually _said_ anything - before the expression wipes clean and he greets Sing with a smile. “Hey. Been here long?”

“Just an hour or so,” Sing says, folding an arm behind his head and slouching even further into Eiji’s plush couch. “Wanted to shower after boxing practice somewhere that wasn’t filled with a bunch of rowdy, sweaty men.”

Eiji snorts and turns back into the hall. “Have you eaten?” he asks, flicking lights on as he goes.

“Why, you gonna make me something?”

“Only if you turn off that garbage,” Eiji says, the sarcasm just barely audible as it drifts down the hall from the kitchen.

Sing snickers, grin splitting his face as he stares out at the empty hallway for another moment before dutifully changing the channel to an old romance film, old enough to be in black and white.

Eiji’s face when he returns with two plates of sandwiches and potato chips isn’t much better than the one he’d made earlier, but he sits down without complaining and they settle in to eat their food and watch the movie.

A little later, Eiji suddenly breaks the silence with, “Do you have a girlfriend?”

Sing glances over and quirks a brow, but shakes his head. “No. Haven’t really had the time, to be honest, not for anything serious. I went to a club, once, but… I dunno, didn’t really like the idea of doing it with a stranger,” he says, shrugging.

“I’m not a stranger,” Eiji says, calm and matter-of-fact, and Sing’s eyes widen.

“Wha—” he starts to ask, but the rest of the words die on his tongue when Eiji swings a leg over Sing’s lap, curls his hands around his jaw, and leans in to press his lips against the edge of Sing’s mouth.

It’s soft, warm, seeping through his skin and into his veins where it floods him down to his toes. They linger in it, the moment stretching out into eternity - and Sing is practically humming in delight - but... something isn’t quite right, something about the way Eiji isn’t grasping for more. He’s pliant, almost familiar in the way he leans into Sing’s space, but there’s no hunger, no spark, no passion to the way he lets the kiss sit there.

Like he’s just waiting - endlessly - to see what Sing will do.

Sing lifts his hands up, curves them around Eiji’s waist and pushes him back gently, just far enough to see the clear, rich brown of Eiji’s eyes - searching. “What was that for?” he asks, soft and hesitant.

Eiji’s gaze is steady, calm, and his hands travel down almost absently to toy with the buttons on Sing’s shirt. “I just— thought we could. If you wanted to. No need for strangers.”

“No need for...” Sing says, then trails off, stomach sinking like a stone. “Oh.”

Eiji nods, twisting his fingers in Sing’s collar and seemingly oblivious to how he’s just crushed Sing’s burgeoning hopes beneath his heel. “Yeah.”

It’s— unexpected. Sing kind of figured Eiji wasn’t the type for casual sex, not with anyone, which is why he’d let his heart soar so high at that first brush of lips. But it doesn’t seem like either of those things are what Eiji’s asking for exactly. Maybe he just needs something warm and good and relieving. Sing can’t imagine Eiji being okay with doing anything like that with someone he doesn’t trust explicitly and there’s probably not many options for that.

And the thought of Eiji trusting _Sing_ enough to share this with him is— nice, makes his heart swell with warmth, but it’s also a sweet, lonely ache in his chest.

Sing isn’t sure he can give Eiji that. Can give Eiji _only_ that without getting greedy. Because it crept up on him slowly, inexorably, planting tender roots before he realized what was happening, but Sing’s stopped lying to himself about how he feels. What Eiji is asking for would mean _more_ to Sing than it would to Eiji and that means it’s a stupid idea, the worst idea.

But he _wants._

Sing draws in a slow, deep, steady breath through his nose, willing his heart to be content, and rubs his thumb over Eiji’s hip in methodic circles. “Alright.”

“Yeah?” Eiji asks, brows rising.

Sing nods. “Yeah. Yeah, we can do that.”

Eiji leans back down, presses their lips together, and Sing sinks back into the couch, letting the heat and haze and mindless release drown out the ravenous guilt gnawing at his insides.

 

~~~

 

And it’s nice. Simple. Foreheads pressed together, hands tangled around their cocks, skin flushing under wet, sloppy kisses, and quiet, breathless panting. Eiji laughs when they finish - soft and bright and almost just like it used to sound - and they lay loose and rumpled and relaxed, just breathing together.

It’s good. It’s really good, and Sing doesn’t deserve good - not with Eiji, not when it’s his fault, not when it feels like every smile Eiji sends his way is being tallied against all the ones he gave to _Ash_ and the two lists don’t even come close to comparing.

But _Eiji_ _does_ deserve to have something good and if _this_ can be that for him then Sing will do it again and again and again.

It doesn’t matter what it does to him.

 

~~~

 

Life goes on much like the way it did before, still. They just fall into bed together now, sometimes, and wake up sated and warm and smiling wanly at each other from across Eiji’s pillows. It’s never anything more than that.

And they still don’t talk about anything that matters.

 

~~~

 

And then Akira comes to visit and stirs everything up, making both of them turn face first toward the past and _deal_ with it, confront it, maybe start to make some headway against it.

Sing wants to hate this tiny little girl, sometimes, for bringing back those expressions on Eiji’s face, the ones that have been so rare for years now, the ones that make Sing think of bloody paper and wet headstones and gunfire ringing in his ears. He wants to hate her for forcing them to talk about this, to talk to each other about it, when Eiji still doesn’t seem ready.

He can’t, though, can’t hate a kid for curiosity and concern. Can’t hate her when it feels like maybe they’ll finally be able to dig out what’s been shoved to the back of a musty closet, sort through all the pieces methodically, carefully, painfully, and then bury them in the backyard once and for all. They’ll prick their fingers on broken glass and get sick from all the dust for a while, and, maybe, Sing will have to leave when Eiji finds the worst secret of all lurking in the furthest, darkest corner. But it’ll be over. Done. No more pretending the closest doesn’t even exist because of what’s inside it.

 

~~~

 

_“But there was one signal I ignored. And that was yours, Sing. I pretended not to hear it. You see, I knew about the letter. I knew that my letter… was the reason he—_

_“I focused on hating Lao… and ignoring your pain… It was the only way I could live with myself._

_“I’m really sorry, Sing. For making you live with that by yourself._

_“You could never replace Ash. Just like nobody could ever replace you, Sing.”_

 

~~~

 

Sing’s sitting on Eiji’s bed, hunched over his knees, when Eiji comes in from tucking a passed out Akira into her bed. His hands haven’t stopped shaking all day, Eiji’s words from earlier echoing in his head on repeat every time it’s silent for more than five seconds. He still can’t really process it.

Eiji crouches down in front of him, rests a warm palm against Sing’s knee, and peers up at him. “I’m sorry, Sing. So sorry I let you hang onto all of that for so long. It wasn’t fair of me.”

Sing croaks out a bitter, mangled laugh. “Fair? What wasn’t fair is that you lost Ash because I couldn’t keep my own guys in line. Not even my own brother trusted my word and you suffered for that.”

Eiji frowns. “You lost him too, Sing. You lost Ash too.”

And Sing’s eyes well up with tears and he’s choking on a sob. Eiji’s arms wrap around his shoulders, pressing his face into Eiji’s chest, and Sing clings to him and just cries and cries and cries.

It’s a long time before he can think about anything but gravestones and cold hospital floors and bloodstained hands and paper and cobblestone. It’s Eiji’s voice that draws him out of the turbulent storm of grief that’s been tossing him around, throwing all the painful memories he’s been ignoring right in his face and making him _feel_ it like he’s living it all over again.

“I knew you hadn’t come to see me because you missed me,” Eiji says, rubbing soothing circles against his spine. “I knew you were trying to atone or take Ash’s place or something like that. And I let you because it was easier to lay it all on you and Lao than to face my own guilt.”

“Eiji—“

“Let me finish,” Eiji cuts in, squeezing him closer. He inhales deeply - Sing hears it wobble a bit, but his voice is steady when he continues. “I’m getting better, Sing, I’m healing. I don’t feel so guilty anymore and that’s because of you. Not because you took the blame on yourself, but because you’ve stayed with me all this time. Looked after me and spent time with me and— and loved me.”

Sing’s breath hitches, torn between elation and terror, but Eiji forges on before he can decide.

“You loved Ash so much. Still do. You looked up to him more than anyone and if you could forgive me for the role I played in his death then I couldn’t possibly be as guilty as I feel, right?” Eiji chuckles, dragging a hand up to tangle in Sing’s hair, running his fingers through it distractedly. “Once I forgave you - or made myself stop pretending to blame you, I guess - it didn’t really make sense to keep blaming myself either.”

“Eiji you—“ Sing stops, swallowing around the lump in his throat and pressing his face into Eiji’s tear-stained shirt. “You’re really somethin’ else,” he says, and pushes away, wiping off his face with his sleeve.

Eiji sits down on the bed next to him and leans into him, warm and heavy against Sing’s side. “Can we— can we talk about whatever it is that’s been going on between us?” he asks, so soft and quiet that Sing almost thinks he imagines it.

He swallows again, rubbing his palms against his thighs. “I don’t— You _know_ I don’t want to replace Ash. I couldn’t do it anyway. I just want you to be happy, whatever that means.”

Eiji sighs and reaches out to tangle their hands together, squeezing tight. “I know you don’t. I never really thought that. But I didn’t hold back all this time just because of the guilt. I held back because— Because you’re _not_ Ash and I don’t think I’ll ever… It’s never gonna be like it was with him.”

“I know,” Sing says, eyes burning. “You love him.”

“I love you, _too,_  Sing,” Eiji says, and Sing’s heart almost stops. “I do. It’s just— quieter. Simpler. Like a bed of warm coals instead of a blazing fire. It’s not as hot, maybe, but it’s not as dangerous, either, and I’m okay with that. I don’t think I could handle something so powerful again. Is that…” he pauses, squeezing Sing’s hand again as his voice goes quiet. “Is that enough?”

“Yeah,” Sing says, squeezing back and closing his eyes as relief and warmth and contentment spreads through his chest. “Yeah, it’s enough.”

 

~~~

 

He doesn’t know that Eiji has finally pulled out Ash’s pictures until he hunts down Akira at the gallery and sees the portrait hanging on the wall. It’s been a long time since Sing saw Ash’s face in anything but hazy memories and the life-size photograph is crystal clear, large as life. Sing doesn’t know when it was taken, but Ash’s expression as he gazes out the window is clear and soft and peaceful - looks like it did _that_ day, at the library, in the morgue - and something dark and twisted and heavy breaks loose from inside Sing’s chest.

Ash died, but it’s because he _chose_ to, Sing realizes, and though he’ll probably never _really_ understand what was going through Ash’s head that day - when he decided to go back to the library instead of to a hospital - Ash was at peace when he died. He looked happy. And if Eiji is happy now, too, then maybe Sing can stop feeling so guilty about it, stop blaming himself. He can let go of Ash now, too, in the little ways that any of them can.

When Eiji finds them a little later, he takes one look at Sing’s face and smiles that gentle, understanding smile of his, the one that comforts and calms everyone around him. He takes Sing’s hand and says “Let’s go home.”

And they do.

**Author's Note:**

> Chen Yun and Zhao Zi Yang were real people. Everything I know about them was found by accident on Wikipedia so I’ve probably butchered their stories’/personalities with my creative liberties. 
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](https://zacekova.tumblr.com/). I take prompts!


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